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‘Yes. If I were a better man,’ he says into my hair. ‘But I’m a villain and you’re too forgiving.’

I nod against his chest. Frown. ‘You are right.’

‘I am.’

It’s so like him. So certain. So am I. ‘Walker?’

‘Yes, Chaos?’

‘I’m glad you’re not a better man.’ His arms tighten around my waist. I wish they were all it took to keep me.

‘What the fuck am I meant to do here? There’s a small army of people camped around my dead body.’

‘Don’t worry, they can’t see you. We’ll just wait them out.’

‘Won’t I…’ What’d he say again? Melt? Combust? Cease to exist forever and ever more?

‘No. Part of you is still attached to your body. It’s why they couldn’t hold us on the Black Star indefinitely. Hardy and I were the only retrievers they had.’

I wonder what ever happened to Hardy. And if that’s true, what about…

‘What about Big Bird?’

‘Pardon?’

‘The bird! The big… bird thing that kept on – you don’t know about that?’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

Well. That’s mildly concerning.

I stare ahead at my body again. I haven’t seen very many dead people. And that is to say, I’ve seen none. I am the first. Gotta say, not living up to the hype. I thought it would be at least marginally more gory.

I wonder what part of me is left with my body. I wonder what’s the thing that clings. Do I need to identify it before I let go? Is that how this works? Is there some sort of posthumous self-discovery retreat I should go on before I de-cling. Will I smoke DMT in the eternal forests and contemplate existence? Will that do it? Or will it be as simple as just moving on after all these people are gone.

‘How do they think I died?’

‘Heart attack,’ he says.

‘Not as exciting as being stabbed in the chest.’

‘Yes, well, we didn’t think you’d want to make anyone jealous.’

A knock sounds at the front door. My Banshee neighbour from Keninburgh, Lucille, rises from one of the loveseats, wiping metallic blue mascara across her cheek, frayed cape trailing behind her. The door swings open.

‘Delivery for Miss Miller V. Brown,’ calls a baritone voice I’ve been waiting to hear again for over a month.

‘You’re joking.’

Gobsmacked, I am absolutely gobsmacked.

Finally, my fucking furniture arrives. Just in time for my permanent vacating of the premises.

Lucille – the sneaky little minx – signs for a redirection back to her own lodgings. Stealing from the dead. How scandalous. But also… it isn’t like I can take it with me.

Pool Whistle is here. He’s alternating between crying and hoarding all of Helen’s canapes. The rave pixies from my old apartments mingle with the bee-shifters. Delilah and Gary speak in hushed whispers in the corner of the room. And then there’s⁠—

‘Hi,’ Neville says. Sadness swimming in his warm-brown eyes. ‘I’m…’ He shakes his head. Aggy shelters him under the cover of her knitted shawl and pats his back.